“You can’t.” She threw down the torch. “Do you want me to beg, is that it?” “No—never.” “Then tell me—” “What more can I say?” he exploded, his whisper rough and harsh. “I’ve already told you everything—I’ve already told you that if I stay here, if I have to live with Arobynn, I’ll snap his damned neck.” “But why? Why can’t you let it go?” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Because I love you!” Her mouth fell open. “I love you,” he repeated, shaking her again. “I have for years. And he hurt you and made me watch because he’s always known how I felt, too. But if I asked you to pick, you’d choose Arobynn, and I. Can’t. Take. It.” The only sounds were their breathing, an uneven beat against the rushing of the sewer river. “You’re a damned idiot,” she breathed. “You’re a moron and an ass and a damned idiot.” He looked like she had hit him. But she went on, and grasped both sides of his face, “Because I’d pick you.” And then she kissed him.
CHAPTER 10 She’d never kissed anyone. And as her lips met his and he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close against him, she honestly had no idea why she’d waited so long. His mouth was warm and soft, his body wondrously solid against hers, his hair silken as she threaded her fingers through it. Still, she let him guide her, forced herself to remember to breathe as he eased her lips apart with his own. When she felt the brush of his tongue against hers, she was so full of lightning she thought she might die from the rush of it. She wanted more. She wanted all of him. She couldn’t hold him tight enough, kiss him fast enough. A growl rumbled in the back of his throat, so full of need she felt it in her core. Lower than that, actually. She pushed him against the wall, and his hands roamed all over her back, her sides, her hips. She wanted to bask in the feeling—wanted to rip off her suit so she could feel his callused hands against her bare skin. The intensity of that desire swept her away. She didn’t give a damn about the sewers. Or Doneval, or Philip, or Arobynn. Sam’s lips left her mouth to travel along her neck. They grazed a spot beneath her ear and her breath hitched. No, she didn’t give a damn about anything right now. It was nighttime when they left the sewers, hair disheveled and mouths swollen. He wouldn’t let go of her hand during the long walk back to the Keep, and when they got there, she ordered the servants to send dinner for them to her room. Though they stayed up long into the night, doing a
minimal amount of talking, their clothes remained on. Enough had happened today to change her life, and she was in no particular mood to alter yet another major thing. But what had happened in the sewer … Celaena lay awake that night, long after Sam had left her room, staring at nothing. He loved her. For years. And he’d endured so much for her sake. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why. She’d been nothing but horrible to him, and had repaid any kindness on his part with a sneer. And what she felt for him … She hadn’t been in love with him for years. Until Skull’s Bay, she wouldn’t have minded killing him. But now … No, she couldn’t think about this now. And she couldn’t think about it tomorrow, either. Because tomorrow, they’d infiltrate Doneval’s house. It was still risky, but the payoff … She couldn’t turn down that money, not now that she would be supporting herself. And she wouldn’t let the bastard Doneval get away with his slave-trade agreement, or blackmailing those who dared to stand against it. She just prayed Sam wouldn’t get hurt. In the silence of her bedroom, she swore an oath to the moonlight that if Sam were hurt, no force in the world would hold her back from slaughtering everyone responsible. After lunch the next afternoon, Celaena waited in the shadows beside the sewer door to the cellar. A ways down the tunnel, Sam also waited, his black suit making him almost invisible in the darkness. With the household lunch just ending, it was a good bet that Celaena would soon have her best chance to slip inside. She’d been waiting for an hour already, each noise whetting the edge she’d been riding since dawn. She’d have to be quick and silent and ruthless. One mistake, one shout—or even a missing servant—might ruin everything. A servant had to come down here to deposit the trash at some point soon. She pulled a little pocket watch out of her suit. Carefully, she lit a match to glance at the face. Two o’clock. She had five hours until she needed to creep into Doneval’s study to await the seven-thirty meeting. And she was
willing to bet he wouldn’t enter the study until then; a man like that would want to greet his guest at the door, to see the look on his partner’s face as he led him through the opulent halls. Suddenly, she heard the first, interior door to the sewers groan, and footsteps and grunts sounded. Her trained ear heard the noises of one servant—female. Celaena blew out the match. She pressed herself into the wall as the lock to the outer door snapped open, and the heavy door slid against the ground. She could hear no other footsteps, save for the woman who hauled a vat of garbage onto the landing. The servant was alone. The cellar above was empty, too. The woman, too preoccupied with depositing the metal pail of garbage, didn’t think to look to the shadows beside the door. She didn’t even pause as Celaena slipped past her. Celaena was through both doors, up the stairs, and into the cellar before she even heard the plop and splatter of the trash landing in the water. As Celaena rushed toward the darkest corner of the vast, dimly lit cellar, she took in as many details as she could. Countless barrels of wine and shelves crammed full of food and goods from across Erilea. One staircase leading up. No other servants to be heard, save for somewhere above her. The kitchen, probably. The outer door slammed shut, the lock sounding. But Celaena was already crouched behind a giant keg of wine. The interior door also shut and locked. Celaena slid on the smooth black mask she’d brought with her, tossing the hood of her cloak over her hair. The sound of footsteps and light panting, and then the servant reappeared at the top of the sewer stairs, empty garbage pail creaking as it swung from one hand. She walked right by, humming to herself as she mounted the stairs that led toward the kitchen. Celaena loosed a breath when the woman’s footsteps faded, then grinned to herself. If Philip had been smart, he would have slit her throat in the sewer that night. Perhaps when she killed him, she’d let him know exactly how she got into the house. When she was absolutely certain that the servant wasn’t returning with a second pail of garbage, Celaena hurried toward the small set of steps that led down to the sewer. Quiet as a jackrabbit in the Red Desert, she unlocked the first door, crept through, then unlocked the second. Sam wouldn’t sneak in until right before the meeting—or else someone might come down and discover him preparing the cellar for the fire that would serve as a
distraction. And if someone found the two unlocked doors before then, it could just be blamed on the servant who’d dumped the trash. Celaena carefully shut both doors, making sure the locks remained disabled, and then returned to her place in the shadows of the cellar’s vast wine collection. Then she waited. At seven, she left the cellar before Sam could arrive with his torches and oil. The ungodly amount of alcohol stocked inside would do the rest. She just hoped he made it out before the fire blew the cellar to bits. She needed to be upstairs and hidden before that happened—and before the exchange was made. Once the fire started a few minutes after seven thirty, some of the guards would be called downstairs immediately, leaving Doneval and his partner with far fewer men to protect them. The servants were eating their evening meal, and from the laughter inside the sub-level kitchen, none of them seemed aware of the deal that was to occur three flights above them. Celaena crept past the kitchen door. In her suit, cloak, and mask, she was a mere shadow on the pale stone walls. She held her breath the entire way up the servants’ narrow spiral staircase. With her new suit, it was far easier to keep track of her weapons, and she slid a long dagger out of the hidden flap in her boot. She peered down the second floor hallway. The wooden doors were all shut. No guards, no servants, no members of Doneval’s household. She eased a foot onto the wooden floorboards. Where the hell were the guards? Swift and quiet as a cat, she was at the door to Doneval’s study. No light shone from beneath the door. She saw no shadows of feet, and heard no sound. The door was locked. A minor inconvenience. She sheathed her dagger and pulled out two narrow bits of metal, wedging and jamming them into the lock until—click. Then she was inside, door locked again, and she stared into the inky black of the interior. Frowning, Celaena fished the pocket watch out of her suit. She lit a match. She still had enough time to look around.
Celaena flicked out the match and rushed to the curtains, shutting them tight against the night outside. Rain still plinked faintly against the covered windows. She moved to the massive oak desk in the center of the room and lit the oil lamp atop it, dimming it until only a faint blue flame gave off a flicker of light. She shuffled through the papers on the desk. Newspapers, casual letters, receipts, the household expenses … She opened every drawer in the desk. More of the same. Where were those documents? Swallowing her violent curse, Celaena put a fist to her mouth. She turned in place. An armchair, an armoire, a hutch … She searched the hutch and armoire, but they had nothing. Just empty papers and ink. Her ears strained for any sound of approaching guards. She scanned the books on the bookcase, tapping her fingers across the spines, trying to hear if any were hollowed out, trying to hear if— A floorboard creaked beneath her feet. She was down on her knees in an instant, rapping on the dark, polished wood. She knocked all around the area, until she found a hollow sound. Carefully, heart hammering, she dug her dagger between the floorboards and wedged it upward. Papers stared back at her. She pulled them out, replaced the floorboard, and was back at the desk a moment later, spreading the papers before her. She’d only glance at them, just to be sure she had the right documents … Her hands trembled as she flipped through the papers, one after another. Maps with red marks in random places, charts with numbers, and names— list after list of names and locations. Cities, towns, forests, mountains, all in Melisande. These weren’t just Melisanders opposed to slavery—these were locations for planned safe houses to smuggle slaves to freedom. This was enough information to get all these people executed or enslaved themselves. And Doneval, that wretched bastard, was going to use this information to force those people to support the slave trade—or be turned over to the king. Celaena gathered up the documents. She’d never let Doneval get away with this. Never. She took a step toward the trick floorboard. Then she heard the voices.
CHAPTER 11 She had the lamp off and the curtains opened in a heartbeat, swearing silently as she tucked the documents into her suit and hid in the armoire. It would only take a few moments before Doneval and his partner found that the documents were missing. But that was all she needed—she just had to get them in here, away from the guards, long enough to take them both down. The fire would start in the cellar any minute now, hopefully distracting many of the other guards, and hopefully happening before Doneval noticed the papers were gone. She left the armoire door open a crack, peering out. The study door unlocked and then swung open. “Brandy?” Doneval was saying to the cloaked and hooded man who trailed in behind him. “No,” the man said, removing his hood. He was of average height and plain, his only notable features his sun-kissed face and high cheekbones. Who was he? “Eager to get it over with?” Doneval chuckled, but there was a hitch to his voice. “You could say that,” the man replied coolly. He looked about the room, and Celaena didn’t dare move—or breathe—as his blue eyes passed over the armoire. “My partners know to start looking for me in thirty minutes.” “I’ll have you out in ten. I have to be at the theater tonight, anyway. There’s a young lady I’m particularly keen to see,” Doneval said with a businessman’s charm. “I take it that your associates are prepared to act quickly and give me a response by dawn?” “They are. But show me your documents first. I need to see what you’re offering.” “Of course, of course,” Doneval said, drinking from the glass of brandy that he’d poured for himself. Celaena’s hands became slick and her face
turned sweaty under the mask. “Do you live here, or are you visiting?” When the man didn’t respond, Doneval said with a grin, “Either way, I hope you’ve stopped by Madam Clarisse’s establishment. I’ve never seen such fine girls in all my life.” The man gave Doneval a distinctly displeased stare. Had Celaena not been here to kill them, she might have liked the stranger. “Not one for chitchat?” Doneval teased, setting down the brandy and walking toward the floorboard. From the slight tremble in Doneval’s hands, she could tell that his talking was all nervous babble. How had such a man come into contact with such incredibly delicate and important information? Doneval knelt before the loose floorboard and pulled it up. He swore. Celaena flicked the sword out of the hidden compartment in her suit and moved. She was out of the closet before they even looked at her, and Doneval died a heartbeat after that. His blood sprayed from the spine-severing wound she gave him through the back of his neck, and the other man let out a shout. She whirled toward him, the sword flicking blood. An explosion rocked the house, so strong that she lost her footing. What in hell had Sam detonated down there? That was all the man needed—he was out the study door. His speed was admirable; he moved like someone used to a lifetime of running. She was through the threshold almost instantly. Smoke was already rising from the stairs. She turned left after the man, only to run into Philip, the bodyguard. She rebounded away as he swiped with a sword for her face. Behind him, the man was still running, and he glanced over his shoulder once before he sprinted down the stairs. “What have you done?” Philip spat, noticing the blood on her blade. He didn’t need to see whose face was under the mask to identify her—he must have recognized the suit. She deployed the sword in her other arm, too. “Get the hell out of my way.” The mask made her words low and gravely—the voice of a demon, not a young woman. She slashed the swords in front of her, a deadly whine coming off of them.
“I’m going to rip you limb from limb,” Philip growled. “Just try it.” Philip’s face twisted in rage as he launched himself at her. She took the first blow on her left blade, her arm aching at the impact, and Philip barely moved away fast enough to avoid her punching the right blade straight through his gut. He struck again, a clever thrust toward her ribs, but she blocked him. He pressed both her blades. Up close, she could see his weapon was of impressive quality. “I wanted to make this last,” Celaena hissed. “But I think it’s going to be quick. Far cleaner than the death you tried to give me.” Philip shoved her back with a roar. “You have no idea what you’ve just done!” She swung her swords in front of her again. “I know exactly what I’ve just done. And I know exactly what I’m about to do.” Philip charged, but the hallway was too narrow and his blow too undisciplined. She got past his guard instantly. His blood soaked her gloved hand. Her sword whined against bone as she whipped it out again. Philip’s eyes went wide and he staggered back, clutching the slender wound that went up through his ribs and into his heart. “Fool,” he whispered, slumping to the ground. “Did Leighfer hire you?” She didn’t say anything as he struggled for breath, blood bubbling from his lips. “Doneval …,” Philip rasped, “… loved his country …” He took a wet breath, hate and grief mingling in his eyes. “You don’t know anything.” He was dead a moment later. “Maybe,” she said as she looked down at his body. “But I knew enough just then.” It had taken less than two minutes—that was it. She knocked out two guards as she catapulted down the stairs of the burning house and out the front door, disarming another three when she vaulted over the iron fence and into the streets of the capital. Where in hell had the man gone?
There were no alleys from the house to the river, so he hadn’t gone left. Which meant he had gone either straight through the alley ahead of her or to the right. He wouldn’t have gone to the right—that was the main avenue of the city, where the wealthy lived. She took the alley straight ahead. She sprinted so fast she could hardly breathe, snapping her swords back into their hidden compartment. No one noticed her; most people were too busy rushing toward the flames now licking the sky above Doneval’s house. What had happened to Sam? She spotted the man then, sprinting down an alley that led toward the Avery. She almost missed him, because he was around the corner and gone the next instant. He’d mentioned his partners—was he was headed to them now? Would he be that foolish? She splashed through puddles and leapt over trash and grabbed the wall of a building as she hauled herself around the corner. Right into a dead end. The man was trying to scale the large brick wall at the other end. The buildings surrounding them had no doors—and no windows low enough for him to reach. Celaena popped out both of her swords as she slowed to a stalking gait. The man made one last leap for the top of the wall, but couldn’t reach. He fell hard against the cobblestone streets. Sprawled on the ground, he twisted toward her. His eyes were bright as he pulled out a pile of papers from his worn jacket. What sort of documents had he been bringing to Doneval? Their official business contract? “Go to hell,” he spat, and a match flared. The papers were instantly alight, and he threw them to the ground. So fast she could hardly see it, he grabbed a vial from his pocket and swallowed the contents. She lunged toward him, but she was too late. By the time she grabbed him, he was dead. Even with his eyes closed, the rage remained on his face. He was gone. Irrevocably gone. But for what— some business deal gone sour? Easing him to the ground, she jumped swiftly to her feet. She stomped on the papers, extinguishing the flame in seconds. But half of them had already burned, leaving only scraps. In the moonlight, she knelt on the damp cobblestones and picked up the remnants of the documents he’d been so willing to die for.
It wasn’t merely a trade agreement. Like the papers she had in her pocket, these contained names and numbers and locations of safe houses. But these were in Adarlan—even stretching as far north as the border with Terrasen. She whipped her head to the body. It didn’t make any sense; why kill himself to keep this information secret, when he’d planned to share it with Doneval and use it for his own profit? Heaviness rushed through her veins. You know nothing, Philip had said. Somehow, it suddenly felt very true. How much had Arobynn known? Philip’s words sounded in her ears again and again. It didn’t add up. Something was wrong—something was off. No one had told her these documents would be this extensive, this damning to the people they listed. Her hands shaking, she shifted his body into a sitting position so he wouldn’t be face-first on the filthy ground. Why had he sacrificed himself to keep this information safe? Noble or not, foolish or not, she couldn’t let it go. She straightened his coat. Then she picked up his half-destroyed documents, lit a match, and let them burn until they were nothing but ashes. It was the only thing she had to offer. She found Sam slumped against the wall of another alley. She rushed to him where he knelt with a hand over his chest, panting heavily. “Are you hurt?” she demanded, scanning the alley for any sign of guards. An orange glow spread behind them. She hoped the servants had gotten out of Doneval’s house in time. “I’m fine,” Sam rasped. But in the moonlight, she could see the gash on his arm. “The guards spotted me in the cellar and shot at me.” He grabbed at the breast of his suit. “One of them hit me right in the heart. I thought I was dead, but the arrow clattered right out. It didn’t even touch my skin.” He peeled open the gash in the front of his suit, and a glimmer of iridescence sparkled. “Spidersilk,” he murmured, his eyes wide. Celaena smiled grimly and pulled off the mask from her face. “No wonder this damned suit was so expensive,” Sam said, letting out a breathy laugh. She didn’t feel the need to tell him the truth. He searched her face. “It’s done, then?”
She leaned down to kiss him, a swift brush of her mouth against his. “It’s done,” she said onto his lips.
CHAPTER 12 The rain clouds had vanished and the sun was rising when Celaena strode into Arobynn’s study and stopped in front of his desk. Wesley, Arobynn’s bodyguard, didn’t even try to stop her. He just shut the study doors behind her before resuming his sentry position in the hall outside. “Doneval’s partner burned his own documents before I could see them,” she said to Arobynn by way of greeting. “And then poisoned himself.” She’d slipped Doneval’s documents under his bedroom door last night, but had decided to wait to explain everything to him until that morning. Arobynn looked up from his ledger. His face was blank. “Was that before or after you torched Doneval’s house?” She crossed her arms. “Does it make a difference?” Arobynn looked at the window and the clear sky beyond. “I sent the documents to Leighfer this morning. Did you look through them?” She snorted. “Of course I did. Right in between killing Doneval and fighting my way out of his house, I found the time to sit down for a cup of tea and read them.” Arobynn still wasn’t smiling. “I’ve never seen you leave such a mess in your wake.” “At least people will think Doneval died in the fire.” Arobynn slammed his hands onto his desk. “Without an identifiable body, how can anyone be sure he’s dead?” She refused to flinch, refused to back down. “He’s dead.” Arobynn’s silver eyes hardened. “You won’t be paid for this. I know for certain Leighfer won’t pay you. She wanted a body and both documents. You only gave me one of the three.” She felt her nostrils flare. “That’s fine. Bardingale’s allies are safe now, anyway. And the trade agreement isn’t happening.” She couldn’t mention
that she hadn’t even seen a trade agreement document among the papers— not without revealing that she’d read the documents. Arobynn let out a low laugh. “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?” Celaena’s throat tightened. Arobynn leaned back in his chair. “Honestly, I expected more from you. All the years I spent training you, and you couldn’t piece together what was happening right before your eyes.” “Just spit it out,” she growled. “There was no trade agreement,” Arobynn said, triumph lighting his silver eyes. “At least, not between Doneval and his source in Rifthold. The real meetings about the slave-trade negotiations have been going on in the glass castle—between the king and Leighfer. It was a key point of persuasion in convincing him to let them build their road.” She kept her face blank, kept herself from flinching. The man who poisoned himself—he hadn’t been there to trade documents to sell out those opposed to slavery. He and Doneval had been working to— Doneval loves his country, Philip had said. Doneval had been working to set up a system of safe houses and form an alliance of people against slavery across the empire. Doneval, bad habits or not, had been working to help the slaves. And she’d killed him. Worse than that, she’d given the documents over to Bardingale—who didn’t want to stop slavery at all. No, she wanted to profit from it and use her new road to do it. And she and Arobynn had concocted the perfect lie to get Celaena to cooperate. Arobynn was still smiling. “Leighfer has already seen to it that Doneval’s documents are secured. If it’ll ease your conscience, she said she won’t give them to the king—not yet. Not until she’s had a chance to speak to the people on this list and … persuade them to support her business endeavors. But if they don’t, perhaps those documents will find their way into the glass castle after all.” Celaena fought to keep from trembling. “Is this punishment for Skull’s Bay?” Arobynn studied her. “While I might regret beating you, Celaena, you did ruin a deal that would have been extremely profitable for us.” “Us,” like she
was a part of this disgusting mess. “You might be free of me, but you shouldn’t forget who I am. What I’m capable of.” “As long as I live,” she said, “I’ll never forget that.” She turned on her heel, striding for the door, but stopped. “Yesterday,” she said, “I sold Kasida to Leighfer Bardingale.” She’d visited Bardingale’s estate in the morning of the day she was set to infiltrate Doneval’s house. The woman had been more than happy to purchase the Asterion horse. She hadn’t once mentioned her former husband’s impending death. And last night, after Celaena had killed Doneval, she’d spent a while staring at the signature at the end of the transfer of ownership receipt, so stupidly relieved that Kasida was going to a good woman like Bardingale. “And?” Arobynn asked. “Why should I care about your horse?” Celaena looked at him long and hard. Always power games, always deceit and pain. “The money is on its way to your vault at the bank.” He said nothing. “As of this moment, Sam’s debt to you is paid,” she said, a shred of victory shining through her growing shame and misery. “From right now until forever, he’s a free man.” Arobynn stared back, then shrugged. “I suppose that’s a good thing.” She felt the final blow coming, and she knew she should run, but she stood like an idiot and listened as he said, “Because I spent all the money you gave me when I was at Lysandra’s Bidding last night. My vault feels a little empty because of it.” It took a moment for the words to sink in. The money she had sacrificed so much to get … He’d used it to win Lysandra’s Bidding. “I’m moving out,” she whispered. He just watched her, his cruel, clever mouth forming a slight smile. “I’ve purchased an apartment, and I’m moving there. Today.” Arobynn’s smile grew. “Do come back and visit us some time, Celaena.” She had to bite her lip to keep it from wobbling. “Why did you do it?” Arobynn shrugged again. “Why shouldn’t I enjoy Lysandra after all these years of investing in her career? And why do you care what I do with my own money? From what I’ve heard, you have Sam now. Both of you are free of me.”
Of course he’d found out already. And of course he’d try to make this about her—try to make it her fault. Why shower her with gifts only to do this? Why deceive her about Doneval and then torture her with it? Why had he saved her life nine years ago just to treat her this way? He’d spent her money on a person he knew she hated. To belittle her. Months ago, it would have worked; that sort of betrayal would have devastated her. It still hurt, but now, with Doneval and Philip and others dead by her hand, with those documents now in Bardingale’s possession, and with Sam steadfastly at her side … Arobynn’s petty, vicious parting shot had narrowly missed the mark. “Don’t come looking for me for a good, long while,” she said. “Because I might kill you if I see you before then, Arobynn.” He waved a hand at her. “I look forward to the fight.” She left. As she strode through his study doors, she almost slammed into the three tall men who were walking in. They all took one look at her face and then muttered apologies. She ignored them, and ignored Wesley’s dark stare as she strode past him. Arobynn’s business was his own. She had her own life now. Her boot heels clicked against the marble floor of the grand entrance. Someone yawned from across the space, and Celaena found Lysandra leaning against the banister of the staircase. She was wearing a white silk nightgown that barely covered her more private areas. “You’ve probably already heard, but I went for a record price,” Lysandra purred, stretching out the beautiful lines of her body. “Thank you for that; rest assured that your gold went a long, long way.” Celaena froze and slowly turned. Lysandra smirked at her. Fast as lightning, Celaena hurled a dagger. The blade imbedded itself into the wooden railing a hair’s breadth from Lysandra’s head. Lysandra began screaming, but Celaena just walked out of the front doors, across the lawn of the Keep, and kept walking until the capital swallowed her up. Celaena sat on the edge of her roof, looking out across the city. The convoy from Melisande had already left, taking the last of the rain clouds
with them. Some of them wore black to mourn Doneval’s death. Leighfer Bardingale had ridden Kasida, prancing down the main avenue. Unlike those in mourning colors, the lady had been dressed in saffron yellow—and was smiling broadly. Of course, it was just because the King of Adarlan had agreed to give them the funds and resources to build their road. Celaena had half a mind to go after her—to get those documents back and repay Bardingale for her deceit. And take back Kasida while she was at it, too. But she didn’t. She’d been fooled and had lost—badly. She didn’t want to be a part of this tangled web. Not when Arobynn had made it perfectly clear that she could never win. To distract her from that miserable thought, Celaena had then spent the whole day sending servants between the Keep and her apartment, fetching all the clothes and books and jewelry that now belonged to her and her alone. The late afternoon light shifted into a deep gold, setting all the green rooftops glowing. “I thought you might be up here,” Sam said, striding across the flat roof to where she sat atop the wall that lined the edge. He surveyed the city. “Some view; I can see why you decided to move.” She smiled slightly, turning to look at him over her shoulder. He came to stand behind her, and reached out a tentative hand to run through her hair. She leaned into the touch. “I heard what he did—about both Doneval and Lysandra,” Sam murmured. “I never imagined he’d sink that low—or use your money like that. I’m sorry.” “It was what I needed.” She watched the city again. “It was what I needed to make me tell him I was moving out.” Sam gave a nod of approval. “I’ve just sort of … left my belongings in your main room. Is that all right?” She nodded. “We’ll find space for it later.” Sam fell silent. “So, we’re free,” he said at last. She turned fully to look at him. His brown eyes were vivid. “I also heard that you paid off my debt,” he said, his voice strained. “You —you sold your Asterion horse to do it.” “I had no choice.” She pivoted from her spot on the roof and stood. “I’d never leave you shackled to him while I walked away.” “Celaena.” He said her name like a caress, slipping a hand around her waist. He pressed his forehead against hers. “How can I ever repay you?”
She closed her eyes. “You don’t have to.” He brushed his lips against hers. “I love you,” he breathed against her mouth. “And from today onward, I want to never be separated from you. Wherever you go, I go. Even if that means going to Hell itself, wherever you are, that’s where I want to be. Forever.” Celaena put her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, giving him her silent reply. Beyond them, the sun set over the capital, turning the world into crimson light and shadows.
THE ASSASSIN AND THE EMPIRE
AFTER Curled into the corner of a prison wagon, Celaena Sardothien watched the splotches of shadows and light play on the wall. Trees—just beginning to shift into the rich hues of autumn—seemed to peer at her through the small, barred window. She rested her head against the musty wooden wall, listening to the creak of the wagon, the clink of the shackles around her wrists and ankles, the rumbling chatter and occasional laughter of the guards who had been escorting the wagon along its route for two days now. But while she was aware of it all, a deafening sort of silence had settled over her like a cloak. It shut out everything. She knew she was thirsty, and hungry, and that her fingers were numb with cold, but she couldn’t feel it keenly. The wagon hit a rut, jostling her so hard that her head knocked into the wall. Even that pain felt distant. The freckles of light along the panels danced like falling snow. Like ash. Ash from a world burned into nothing—lying in ruins around her. She could taste the ash of that dead world on her chapped lips, settling on her leaden tongue. She preferred the silence. In the silence she couldn’t hear the worst question of all: had she brought this upon herself? The wagon passed under a particularly thick canopy of trees, blotting out the light. For a heartbeat, the silence peeled back long enough for that question to worm its way into her skull, into her skin, into her breath and her bones. And in the dark, she remembered.
CHAPTER 1 Eleven Days Earlier Celaena Sardothien had been waiting for this night for the past year. Sitting on the wooden walkway tucked into the side of the gilded dome of the Royal Theater, she breathed in the music rising from the orchestra far below. Her legs dangled over the railing edge, and she leaned forward to rest her cheek on her folded arms. The musicians were seated in a semicircle on the stage. They filled the theater with such wondrous noise that Celaena sometimes forgot how to breathe. She had seen this symphony performed four times in the past four years—but she’d always gone with Arobynn. It had become their annual autumn tradition. Though she knew she shouldn’t, she let her eyes drift to the private box where, until last month, she’d always been seated. Was it from spite or sheer blindness that Arobynn Hamel now sat there, Lysandra at his side? He knew what this night meant to Celaena—knew how much she’d looked forward to it every year. And though Celaena hadn’t wanted to go with him—and never wanted anything to do with him again—tonight he’d brought Lysandra. As if this night didn’t mean anything to him at all. Even from the rafters, she could see the King of the Assassins holding the hand of the young courtesan, his leg resting against the skirts of her rose-colored gown. A month after Arobynn had won the Bidding for Lysandra’s virginity, it seemed that he was still monopolizing her time. It wouldn’t be a surprise if he’d worked out something with her madam to keep Lysandra until he tired of her. Celaena wasn’t sure if she pitied Lysandra for it.
Celaena returned her attention to the stage. She didn’t know why she’d come here, or why she’d told Sam that she had “plans” and couldn’t meet him for dinner at their favorite tavern. In the past month, she hadn’t seen or spoken to Arobynn, nor had she wanted to. But this was her favorite symphony, the music so lovely that, to fill the yearlong wait between performances, she’d mastered a fair portion of it on the pianoforte. The symphony’s third movement finished, and applause thundered across the shimmering arc of the dome. The orchestra waited for the clapping to die down before it swept into the joyous allegro that led to the finale. At least in the rafters, she didn’t have to bother dressing up and pretending to fit in with the bejeweled crowd below. She had easily snuck in from the roof, and no one had looked up to see the black-clad figure seated along the railing, nearly hidden from view by the crystal chandeliers that had been raised and dimmed for the performance. Up here, she could do what she liked. She could rest her head on her arms, or swing her legs in time with the music, or get up and dance if she wanted to. So what if she’d never again sit in that beloved box, so lovely with its red velvet seats and polished wooden banisters? The music braided through the theater, and each note was more brilliant than the last. She’d chosen to leave Arobynn. She’d paid off her debt to him, and Sam’s debt to him, and had moved out. She’d walked away from her life as Arobynn Hamel’s protégée. That had been her decision—and one she didn’t regret, not after Arobynn had so sorely betrayed her. He’d humiliated and lied to her, and used her blood money to win Lysandra’s Bidding just to spite her. Though she still fancied herself Adarlan’s Assassin, part of her wondered how long Arobynn would allow her to keep the title before he named someone else his successor. But no one could truly replace her. Whether or not she belonged to Arobynn, she was still the best. She’d always be the best. Wouldn’t she? She blinked, realizing she’d somehow stopped hearing the music. She should change spots—move to a place where the chandeliers blocked out her view of Arobynn and Lysandra. She stood, her tailbone aching from sitting for so long on the wood.
Celaena took a step, the floorboards sagging under her black boots, but paused. Though it was as she’d remembered it, every note flawless, the music felt disjointed now. Even though she could play it from memory, it was suddenly like she’d never heard it before, or like her internal beat was now somehow off from the rest of the world. Celaena glanced again at the familiar box far below—where Arobynn was now draping a long, muscled arm along the back of Lysandra’s seat. Her old seat, the one closest to the stage. It was worth it, though. She was free, and Sam was free, and Arobynn … He had done his best to hurt her, to break her. Forgoing these luxuries was a cheap price to pay for a life without him lording over her. The music worked itself into the frenzy of its climax, becoming a whirlwind of sound that she found herself walking through—not toward a new seat, but toward the small door that led onto the roof. The music roared, each note a pulse of air against her skin. Celaena threw the hood of her cloak over her head as she slipped out the door and into the night beyond. It was nearing eleven when Celaena unlocked the door to her apartment, breathing in the already familiar scents of home. She’d spent much of the past month furnishing the spacious apartment—hidden on the upper floor of a warehouse in the slums—that she now shared with Sam. He’d offered again and again to pay for half of the apartment, but each time, she ignored him. It wasn’t because she didn’t want his money— though she truly didn’t—but rather because, for the first time ever, this was a place that was hers. And though she cared deeply for Sam, she wanted to keep it that way. She slipped inside, taking in the great room that greeted her: to the left, a shining oak dining table large enough to fit eight upholstered chairs around it; to her right, a plush red couch, two armchairs, and a low-lying table set before the darkened fireplace. The cold fireplace told her enough. Sam wasn’t home. Celaena might have gone into the adjacent kitchen to devour the remaining half of the berry tart Sam hadn’t finished at lunch—might have
kicked off her boots and reclined before the floor-to-ceiling window to take in the stunning nighttime view of the capital. She might have done any number of things had she not spied the note atop the small table beside the front door. I’ve gone out, it said in Sam’s handwriting. Don’t wait up. Celaena crumpled the note in her fist. She knew exactly where he’d gone —and exactly why he didn’t want her to wait up. Because if she were asleep, then she most likely wouldn’t see the blood and bruises on him when he staggered in. Swearing viciously, Celaena threw the crumpled note on the ground and stalked out of the apartment, slamming the door shut behind her. If there was a place in Rifthold where the scum of the capital could always be found, it was the Vaults. On a relatively quiet street of the slums, Celaena flashed her money to the thugs standing outside the iron door and entered the pleasure hall. The heat and reek hit her almost immediately, but she didn’t let it crack her mask of cold calm as she descended into a warren of subterranean chambers. She took one look down at the teeming crowd around the main fighting pit and knew exactly who was causing them to cheer. She swaggered down the stone steps, her hands in easy reach of the swords and daggers sheathed at the belt slung low over her hips. Most people would have opted to wear even more weapons to the Vaults—but Celaena had been here often enough to anticipate the threats the usual clientele posed, and she knew she could look after herself just fine. Still, she kept her hood over her head, concealing most of her face in shadow. Being a young woman in a place like this wasn’t without its obstacles— especially when a good number of men came here for the other entertainment offered by the Vaults. As she reached the bottom of the narrow stairs, the reek of unwashed bodies, stale ale, and worse things hit her full-on. It was enough to turn her stomach, and she was grateful that she hadn’t eaten anything recently. She slipped through the crowd packed around the main pit, trying not to look to the exposed rooms on either side—to the girls and women who
weren’t fortunate enough to be sold into an upper-class brothel like Lysandra. Sometimes, when Celaena was feeling particularly inclined to make herself miserable, she’d wonder if their fate would have been hers had Arobynn not taken her in. She’d wonder if she’d gaze into their eyes and see some version of herself staring back. So it was easier not to look. Celaena pushed past the men and women assembled around the sunken pit, keeping alert for grasping hands eager to part her from her money—or one of her exquisite blades. She leaned against a wooden pillar and stared into the pit. Sam moved so fast the hulking man in front of him didn’t stand a chance, dodging each knock-out blow with power and grace—some of it natural, some learned from years of training at the Assassins’ Keep. Both of them were shirtless, and Sam’s toned chest gleamed with sweat and blood. Not his blood, she noticed—the only injuries she could see were his split lip and a bruise on his cheek. His opponent lunged, trying to tackle Sam to the sandy floor. But Sam whirled, and as the giant stumbled past, Sam drove his bare foot into his back. The man hit the sand with a thud that Celaena felt through the filthy stone floor. The crowd cheered. Sam could have rendered the man unconscious in a heartbeat. He could have snapped his neck just now, or ended the fight any number of ways. But from the half-wild, self-satisfied gleam in Sam’s eyes, Celaena knew he was playing with his opponent. The injuries on his face had probably been intentional mistakes—to make it look like a somewhat even fight. Fighting in the Vaults wasn’t only about knocking out your opponent—it was about making a show out of it. The crowd near savage with elation, Sam probably had been giving them one hell of a performance. And, judging by the blood on Sam, it seemed like this performance was probably one of several encores. A low growl rippled through her. There was only one rule in the Vaults: no weapons, just fists. But you could still get horribly hurt. His opponent staggered to his feet, but Sam had finished waiting. The poor brute didn’t even have time to raise his hands as Sam lashed out with a roundhouse kick. His foot slammed into the man’s face hard enough for the impact to sound over the shouts of the crowd.
The opponent reeled sideways, blood spurting from his mouth. Sam struck again, a punch to the gut. The man doubled over, only to meet Sam’s knee to his nose. His head snapped skyward, and he stumbled back, back, back— The crowd screamed its triumph as Sam’s fist, coated in blood and sand, connected with the man’s exposed face. Even before he finished swinging, Celaena knew it was a knockout punch. The man hit the sand and didn’t move. Panting, Sam lifted his bloodied arms to the surrounding crowd. Celaena’s ears nearly shattered at the answering roar. She gritted her teeth as the master of ceremonies strode onto the sand, proclaiming Sam the victor. It wasn’t fair, really. No matter what opponents they threw his way, any person that went up against Sam would lose. Celaena had half a mind to hop into the pit and challenge Sam herself. That would be a performance the Vaults would never forget. She gripped her arms. She hadn’t had a contract in the month since she’d left Arobynn, and though she and Sam continued training as best they could … Oh, the urge to jump into that pit and take them all down was overwhelming. A wicked smile spread across her face. If they thought Sam was good, then she’d really give the crowd something to scream for. Sam spotted her leaning against the pillar. His triumphant grin remained, but she saw a glimmer of displeasure flash in his brown eyes. She inclined her head toward the exit. The gesture told him all he needed to know: unless he wanted her to get into the pit with him, he was done for tonight, and she’d meet him on the street when he had collected his earnings. And then the real fight would begin. “Should I be relieved or worried that you haven’t said anything?” Sam asked her as they strode through the backstreets of the capital, weaving their way home. Celaena dodged a puddle that could have been either rainwater or urine. “I’ve been thinking of ways to begin that don’t involve screaming.”
Sam snorted, and she ground her teeth. A bag of coins jangled at his waist. Although the hood of his cloak was pulled up over his head, she could still clearly see his split lip. She fisted her hands. “You promised you wouldn’t go back there.” Sam kept his eyes on the narrow alley ahead of them, always alert, always watching for any source of danger. “I didn’t promise. I said I’d think about it.” “People die in the Vaults!” She said it louder than she meant to, her words echoing off the alley walls. “People die because they’re fools in search of glory. They’re not trained assassins.” “Accidents still happen. Any of those men could have snuck in a blade.” He let out a quick, harsh laugh, full of pure male arrogance. “You really think so little of my abilities?” They turned down another street, where a group of people were smoking pipes outside a dimly lit tavern. Celaena waited until they were past them before speaking. “Risking yourself for a few coins is absurd.” “We need whatever money we can get,” Sam said quietly. She tensed. “We have money.” Some money, less and less each day. “It won’t last forever. Not when we haven’t been able to get any other contracts. And especially not with your lifestyle.” “My lifestyle!” she hissed. But it was true. She could rough it, but her heart lay in luxury—in fine clothes and delicious food and exquisite furnishings. She’d taken for granted how much of that had been provided for her at the Assassins’ Keep. Arobynn might have kept a detailed list of the expenses she owed him, but he’d never charged them for their food, or their servants, or their carriages. And now that she was on her own … “The Vaults are easy fights,” Sam said. “Two hours there, and I can make decent money.” “The Vaults are a festering pile of shit,” she snapped. “We’re better than that. We can make our money elsewhere.” She didn’t know where, or how, exactly, but she could find something better than fighting in the Vaults. Sam grabbed her arm, making her stop to face him. “Then what if we left Rifthold?” Though her own hood covered most of her features, she raised her brows at him. “What’s keeping us here?” Nothing. Everything.
Unable to answer him, Celaena shook off his grasp and continued walking. It was an absurd idea, really. Leaving Rifthold. Where would they even go? They reached the warehouse and were quickly up the rickety wooden stairs at the back, then inside the apartment on the second floor. She didn’t say anything to him as she tossed off her cloak and boots, lit some candles, and went into the kitchen to down a piece of bread slathered in butter. And he didn’t say anything as he strode into the bathing room and washed himself. The running water was a luxury the previous owner had spent a fortune on—and had been the biggest priority for Celaena when she was looking for places to live. Benefits like running water were plentiful in the capital, but not widespread elsewhere. If they left Rifthold, what sorts of things would she have to go without? She was still contemplating that when Sam padded into the kitchen, all traces of blood and sand washed away. His bottom lip was still swollen, and he had a bruise on his cheek, not to mention his raw knuckles, but he looked to be in one piece. Sam slid into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and cut himself a piece of bread. Buying food for the house took up more time than she’d realized it would, and she’d been debating hiring a housekeeper, but … that’d cost money. Everything cost money. Sam took a bite, poured a glass of water from the ewer she’d left sitting on the oak table, and leaned back in his chair. Behind him, the window above the sink revealed the glittering sprawl of the capital and the illuminated glass castle towering over them all. “Are you just not going to speak to me ever again?” She shot him a glare. “Moving is expensive. If we were to leave Rifthold, then we’d need a little more money so we could have something to fall back on if we can’t get work right away.” Celaena contemplated it. “One more contract each,” she said. “I might not be Arobynn’s protégée anymore, but I’m still Adarlan’s Assassin, and you’re … well, you’re you.” He gave her a dark look, and, despite herself, Celaena grinned. “One more contract,” she repeated, “and we could move. It’d help with the expenses—give us enough of a cushion.”
“Or we could say to hell with it and go.” “I’m not giving up everything just to slum it somewhere. If we leave, we’ll do it my way.” Sam crossed his arms. “You keep saying if—but what else is there to decide?” Again: nothing. Everything. She took a long breath. “How will we establish ourselves in a new city without Arobynn’s support?” Triumph flashed in Sam’s eyes. She leashed her irritation. She hadn’t said outright that she was agreeing to move, but her question was confirmation enough for both of them. Before he could answer, she went on: “We’ve grown up here, and yet in the past month, we haven’t been able to get any hires. Arobynn always handled those things.” “Intentionally,” Sam growled. “And we’d do just fine, I think. We’re not going to need his support. When we move, we’re leaving the Guild, too. I don’t want to be paying dues for the rest of my life, and I don’t want anything to do with that conniving bastard ever again.” “Yes, but you know that we need his blessing. We need to make … amends. And need him to agree to let us leave the Guild peacefully.” She almost choked on it, but managed to get the words out. Sam shot out of his seat. “Do I need to remind you what he did to us? What he’s done to you? You know that the reason we can’t find any hires is because Arobynn made sure word got out that we weren’t to be approached.” “Exactly. And it will only get worse. The Assassins’ Guild would punish us for beginning our own establishment elsewhere without Arobynn’s approval.” Which was true. While they’d paid their debts to Arobynn, they were still members of the Guild, and still obligated to pay them dues every year. Every assassin in the Guild answered to Arobynn. Obeyed him. Celaena and Sam had both been dispatched more than once to hunt down Guild members who had gone rogue, refused to pay their dues, or broken some sacred Guild rule. Those assassins had tried to hide, but it had only been a matter of time before they’d been found. And the consequences hadn’t been pleasant.
Celaena and Sam had brought Arobynn and the Guild a lot of money and earned them a fair amount of notoriety, so their decisions and careers had been closely monitored. Even with their debts paid, they’d be asked to pay a parting fee, if they were lucky. If not … well, it’d be a very dangerous request to make. “So,” she went on, “unless you want to wind up with your throat cut, we need to get Arobynn’s approval to break from the Guild before we leave. And since you seem in such a hurry to get out of the capital, we’ll go see him tomorrow.” Sam pursed his lips. “I’m not going to grovel. Not to him.” “Neither am I.” She stalked to the kitchen sink, bracing her hands on either side of it as she looked out the window. Rifthold. Could she truly leave it behind? She might hate it at times, but … this was her city. Leaving that, starting over in a new city somewhere on the continent … Could she do it? Footsteps thudded on the wooden floor, a warm breath caressed her neck, and then Sam’s arms slipped around her waist from behind. He rested his chin on the crook between her shoulder and neck. “I just want to be with you,” he murmured. “I don’t care where we go. That’s all I want.” She closed her eyes, and leaned her head against his. He smelled of her lavender soap—her expensive lavender soap that she’d once warned him to never use again. He probably had no idea what soap she’d even been scolding him about. She’d have to start hiding her beloved toiletries and leave out something inexpensive for him. Sam wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, anyway. “I’m sorry I went to the Vaults,” he said onto her skin, planting a kiss beneath her ear. A shiver went down her spine. Though they’d been sharing the bedroom for the past month, they hadn’t yet crossed that final threshold of intimacy. She wanted to—and he certainly wanted to—but so much had changed so quickly. Something that monumental could wait a while longer. It didn’t stop them from enjoying each other, though. Sam kissed her ear, his teeth grazing her earlobe, and her heart stumbled a beat.
“Don’t use kissing to swindle me into accepting your apology,” she got out, even as she tilted her head to the side to allow him better access. He chuckled, his breath caressing her neck. “It was worth a shot.” “If you go to the Vaults again,” she said as he nibbled on her ear, “I’ll hop in and beat you unconscious myself.” She felt him smile against her skin. “You could try.” He bit her ear—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to tell her that he’d now stopped listening. She whirled in his arms, glaring up at him, at his beautiful face illuminated by the glow of the city, at his eyes, so dark and rich. “And you used my lavender soap. Don’t ever do that—” But then Sam’s lips found hers, and Celaena stopped talking for a good while after that. Yet as they stood there, their bodies twining around each other, there was still one question that remained unasked—one question neither of them dared voice. Would Arobynn Hamel let them leave?
CHAPTER 2 When Celaena and Sam entered the Assassins’ Keep the next day, it was as if nothing had changed. The same trembling housekeeper greeted them at the door before scuttling away, and Wesley, Arobynn’s bodyguard, was standing in his familiar position outside the King of the Assassins’ study. They strode right up to the door, Celaena using every step, every breath, to take in details. Two blades strapped to Wesley’s back, one at his side, two daggers sheathed at his waist, the glint of one shining in his boot—probably one more hidden in the other boot, too. Wesley’s eyes were alert, keen—not a sign of exhaustion or sickness or anything that she could use to her advantage if it came to a fight. But Sam just strolled right up to Wesley, and despite how quiet he’d been on their long walk over here, he held out a hand and said, “Good to see you, Wesley.” Wesley shook Sam’s hand and gave a half smile. “I’d say you look good, boyo, but that bruise says otherwise.” Wesley looked at Celaena, who lifted her chin and huffed. “You look more or less the same,” he said, a challenging gleam in his eyes. He’d never liked her—never bothered to be nice. As if he’d always known that she and Arobynn would wind up on opposite sides, and that he’d be the first line of defense. She strode right past him. “And you still look like a jackass,” she said sweetly, and opened the doors to the study. Sam muttered an apology as Celaena entered the room and found Arobynn waiting for them. The King of the Assassins watched them with a smile, his hands steepled on the desk in front of him. Wesley shut the door behind Sam, and they silently took seats in the two chairs before Arobynn’s massive oak desk. One glance at Sam’s drawn face told her that he, too, was remembering the last time the two of them had been in here together. That night had ended with both of them beaten into unconsciousness at Arobynn’s hands.
That had been the night that Sam’s loyalty had switched—when he’d threatened to kill Arobynn for hurting her. It had been the night that changed everything. Arobynn’s smile grew, a practiced, elegant expression disguised as benevolence. “As overjoyed as I am to see you in good health,” he said, “do I even want to know what brings the two of you back home?” Home—this wasn’t her home now, and Arobynn knew it. The word was just another weapon. Sam bristled, but Celaena leaned forward. They’d agreed that she would do the talking, since Sam was more likely to lose his temper when Arobynn was involved. “We have a proposal for you,” she said, keeping perfectly still. Coming face-to-face with Arobynn, after all his betrayals, made her stomach twist. When she’d walked out of this office a month ago, she’d sworn that she’d kill him if he bothered her again. And Arobynn, surprisingly, had kept his distance. “Oh?” Arobynn leaned back in his chair. “We’re leaving Rifthold,” she said, her voice cool and calm. “And we’d like to leave the Guild, too. Ideally, we’d establish our own business in another city on the continent. Nothing that would rival the Guild,” she added smoothly, “just a private business for us to make ends meet.” She might need his approval, but she didn’t have to grovel. Arobynn looked from Celaena to Sam. His silver eyes narrowed on Sam’s split lip. “Lovers’ quarrel?” “A misunderstanding,” Celaena said before Sam could snap a retort. Of course Arobynn would refuse to immediately give them an answer. Sam gripped the wooden arms of his chair. “Ah,” Arobynn replied, still smiling. Still calm, and graceful, and deadly. “And where, exactly, are you living now? Somewhere nice, I hope. It wouldn’t do to have my best assassins living in squalor.” He’d make them play this game of exchanging niceties until he wanted to answer their question. Beside her, Sam was rigid in his seat. She could practically feel the hot rage rippling off of him as Arobynn said my assassins. Another razor-sharp use of words. She bit down on her own rising anger.
“You look well, Arobynn,” she said. If he didn’t answer her questions, then she certainly wouldn’t answer his. Especially ones about their current location, though he probably already knew. Arobynn waved a hand, leaning back in his seat. “This Keep feels too empty without you both.” He said it with such conviction—as if they’d left just to spite him—that she wondered if he meant it, if he’d somehow forgotten what he’d done to her and how he’d treated Sam. “And now that you’re talking of moving away from the capital and leaving the Guild …” Arobynn’s face was unreadable. She kept her breathing even, kept her heartbeat from racing. A nonanswer to her question. She kept her chin high. “Then is it acceptable to the Guild if we leave?” Every word balanced on the edge of a blade. Arobynn’s eyes glittered. “You are free to move away.” Move away. He hadn’t said anything about leaving the Guild. Celaena opened her mouth to demand a clearer statement, but then— “Give us a damned answer.” Sam’s teeth were bared, his face white with anger. Arobynn looked at Sam, his smile so deadly that Celaena fought the urge to reach for a dagger. “I just did. You two are free to do whatever you want.” She had seconds, perhaps, before Sam truly exploded—before he’d start a brawl that would ruin everything. Arobynn’s smile grew, and Sam’s hands casually dropped to his sides—his fingers so, so near the hilts of his sword and dagger. Shit. “We’re willing to offer this much to leave the Guild,” Celaena interrupted, desperate for anything to get them from coming to blows. Gods above, she was aching for a fight, but not this one—not with Arobynn. Thankfully, both Arobynn and Sam turned to her as she named the sum. “That price is more than satisfactory for us to leave and set up our own business elsewhere.” Arobynn looked at her for a too-long moment before he made her a counteroffer. Sam shot to his feet. “Are you insane?”
Celaena was too stunned to move. That much money … He had to know, somehow, how much she had left in the bank. Because paying him what he asked would wipe it out entirely. The only money they’d have would be Sam’s meager savings, and whatever she could get from the apartment— which might be hard to sell, given its location and unusual layout. She countered his offer with another, but he just shook his head and stared up at Sam. “You two are my best,” Arobynn said with maddening calm. “If you leave, then the respect and the money you’d provide the Guild would be lost. I have to account for that. This price is generous.” “Generous,” Sam hissed. But Celaena, her stomach churning, lifted her chin. She could keep throwing figures at him until she was blue in the face, but he’d obviously picked this number for a reason. He would not budge. It was one last slap in the face—one final twist of the knife meant only to punish her. “I accept,” she said, giving him a bland smile. Sam whipped his head around, but she kept her eyes on Arobynn’s elegant face. “I’ll have the funds transferred to your account immediately. And once that’s done, we’re leaving—and I expect to never be bothered by you or the Guild again. Understood?” Celaena rose to her feet. She had to get far away from here. Coming back had been a mistake. She shoved her hands in her pockets to hide how they were starting to tremble. Arobynn grinned at her, and she realized he already knew. “Understood.” “You had no right to accept his offer,” Sam raged, his face set with such fury that people along the broad city avenue practically jumped out of his way. “No right to do that without consulting me. You didn’t even bargain!” Celaena peered into the shop windows as she walked by. She loved the shopping district in the heart of the capital—the clean sidewalks lined with trees, the main avenue leading right up to the marble steps of the Royal Theater, the way she could find anything from shoes to perfumes to jewelry to fine weapons. “If we pay that, then we definitely need to find a contract before we leave!”
If we pay that. She said, “I am paying that.” “Like hell you are.” “It’s my money, and I can do what I want with it.” “You paid for your debt and mine already—I’m not letting you give him another copper. We can find some way around paying this parting fee.” They walked past the crowded entrance of a popular tea court, where finely dressed women were chatting with each other in the warm autumn sun. “Is the issue that he demanded so much money, or that I’m paying it?” Sam pulled up short, and though he didn’t look twice at the tea court ladies, they certainly looked at him. Even with anger rolling off him, Sam was beautiful. And too angry to notice that this was not the spot to argue. Celaena grabbed his arm, yanking him along. She felt the eyes of the ladies on her as she did so. She couldn’t help a flicker of smugness as they took in her dark blue tunic with its exquisite gold embroidery along the lapels and cuffs, her fitted ivory pants, and her knee-high brown boots, made with butter-soft leather. While most women—especially the wealthy or noble-born ones—opted to wear dresses and miserable corsets, pants and tunics were common enough that her fine clothing wouldn’t have escaped the appreciation of the women idling outside the tea courts. “The issue,” Sam said through his teeth, “is that I’m sick of playing his games, and I’d just as soon cut his throat as pay that money.” “Then you’re a fool. If we leave Rifthold on bad terms, we’ll never be able to settle anywhere—not if we want to keep our current occupation. And even if we decided to find honest professions instead, I’d always wonder if he or the Guild would show up one day and demand that money. So if I have to give him every last copper in my bank account to ensure that I can sleep in peace for the rest of my life, so be it.” They reached the enormous intersection at the heart of the shopping district, where the domed Royal Theater rose above streets packed with horses and wagons and people. “Where do we draw the line?” Sam asked her quietly. “When do we say enough?” “This is the last time.” He let out a derisive snort. “I’m sure it is.” He turned down one of the avenues—in the opposite direction from home.
“Where are you going?” He looked over his shoulder. “I need to clear my head. I’ll see you at home.” She watched him cross the busy avenue, watched until he was swallowed up by the hustle of the capital. Celaena began walking, too, wherever her feet took her. She passed by the steps of the Royal Theater and kept walking, the shops and vendors blurring together. The day was blossoming into a truly lovely example of autumn—the air was crisp, but the sun was warm. In some ways, Sam was right. But she’d dragged him into this mess— she’d been the one who had started things in Skull’s Bay. Though he claimed to have been in love with her for years, if she’d only kept her distance these past few months, he wouldn’t be in this situation. Perhaps, if she’d been smart, she would have just broken his heart and let him remain with Arobynn. Having him hate her was easier than this. She was … responsible for him now. And that was terrifying. She cared for him more than she’d ever cared for anyone. Now that she’d ruined the career he’d worked for his whole life, she’d hand over all her money to make sure that he could at least be free. But she couldn’t just explain that she paid for everything because she felt guilty. He’d resent that. Celaena paused her walking and found herself at the other end of the broad avenue, across the street from the gates to the glass castle. She hadn’t realized she’d walked so far—or been so lost in her thoughts. She usually avoided coming this close to the castle. The heavily guarded iron gates led to a long, tree-lined path that snaked up to the infamous building itself. She craned her head back to take in the towers that brushed the sky, the turrets sparkling in the midmorning sun. It had been built atop the original stone castle, and was the crowning achievement in Adarlan’s empire. She hated it. Even from the street, she could see people milling about the distant castle grounds—uniformed guards, ladies in voluminous dresses, servants clad in the clothes of their station … What sort of lives did they lead, dwelling within the shadow of the king? Her eyes rose to the highest gray stone tower, where a small balcony jutted out, covered with creeping ivy. It was so easy to imagine that the people within had nothing to worry about.
But inside that shining building, decisions were made daily that altered the course of Erilea. Inside that building, it had been decreed that magic was outlawed, and that labor camps like Calaculla and Endovier were to be established. Inside that building, the murderer who called himself king dwelled, the man she feared above all others. If the Vaults were the heart of Rifthold’s underworld, then the glass castle was the soul of Adarlan’s empire. She felt like it watched her, a giant beast of glass and stone and iron. Staring at it made her problems with Sam and Arobynn feel inconsequential —like gnats buzzing before the gaping maw of a creature poised to devour the world. A chill wind blew past, ripping strands of hair from her braid. She shouldn’t have let herself walk so close, even if the odds of ever encountering the king were next to none. Just the thought of him sent a wretched fear splintering through her. Her only consolation was that most people from the kingdoms conquered by the king probably felt the same way. When he’d marched into Terrasen nine years ago, his invasion had been swift and brutal—so brutal that it made even Celaena sick to recall some of the atrocities that had been committed to secure his rule. Shuddering, she turned on her heel and headed home. Sam didn’t return until dinner. Celaena was sprawled on the couch before the roaring fireplace, book in hand, when Sam strode into the apartment. His hood still covered half of his face, and the hilt of the sword strapped to his back glinted in the orange light of the room. As he locked the door behind him, she caught the dull gleam of the gauntlets strapped to his forearms—thick, embroidered leather that concealed hidden daggers. He moved with such precise efficiency and controlled power that she blinked. Sometimes it was so easy to forget that the young man she shared the apartment with was also a trained, ruthless killer. “I found a client.” He pulled off his hood and leaned against the door, his arms crossed over his broad chest.
Celaena shut the book she’d been gobbling down and set it on the couch. “Oh?” His brown eyes were bright, though his face was unreadable. “They’ll pay. A lot. And they want to keep it from reaching the Assassins’ Guild’s ears. There’s even a contract in it for you.” “Who’s the client?” “I don’t know. The man I spoke to had the usual disguises—hood, unremarkable clothing. He could have been acting on behalf of someone else.” “Why do they want to avoid using the Guild?” She moved to perch on the arm of the couch. The distance between her and Sam felt too large, too full of lightning. “Because they want me to kill Ioan Jayne and his second-in-command, Rourke Farran.” Celaena stared at him. “Ioan Jayne.” The biggest Crime Lord in Rifthold. Sam nodded. A roaring filled her ears. “He’s too well-guarded,” she said. “And Farran … That man is a psychopath. He’s a sadist.” Sam approached her. “You said that in order to move to another city, we need money. And since you’re insisting on paying off the Guild, then we really need money. So unless you want to wind up as thieves, I suggest we take it.” She had to tilt her head back to look at him. “Jayne is dangerous.” “Then it’s good that we’re the best, isn’t it?” Though he gave her a lazy smile, she could see the tension in his shoulders. “We should find another contract. There’s bound to be someone else.” “You don’t know that. And no one else would pay this much.” He named the figure, and Celaena’s brows rose. They’d be very comfortable after that. They could live anywhere. “You’re sure you don’t know who the client is?” “Are you looking for excuses to say no?” “I’m trying to make sure that we’re safe,” she snapped. “Do you know how many people have tried to take out Jayne and Farran? Do you know how many of them are still alive?” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Do you want to be with me?” “What?”
“Do you want to be with me?” “Yes.” Right now, that was all she wanted. A half smile tugged at one corner of his lips. “Then we’ll do this, and we’ll have enough money to tie up our loose ends in Rifthold and set ourselves up somewhere else on the continent. If you asked, I’d still leave tonight without giving Arobynn or the Guild a copper, but you’re right: I don’t want to spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders. It should be a clean break. I want that for us.” Her throat tightened, and she looked toward the fire. Sam hooked a finger under her chin and tilted her head up to him again. “So will you go after Jayne and Farran with me?” He was so beautiful—so full of all the things that she wanted, all that she hoped for. How had she never noticed that until this year? How had she spent so long hating him? “I’ll think about it,” she rasped. It wasn’t just bravado. She did need to think about it. Especially if their targets were Jayne and Farran. Sam’s smile grew and he leaned down to brush a kiss to her temple. “Better than a no.” Their breath mingled. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier today.” “An apology from Celaena Sardothien?” His eyes danced with light. “Do I dream?” She scowled, but Sam kissed her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, opening her mouth to his, and a low growl escaped from him as their tongues met. Her hands tangled in the strap that held his sword against his back, and she withdrew long enough to unclasp the scabbard buckle across his chest. His sword clattered to the wooden floor behind them. Sam looked her in the eyes again, and it was enough for her to grab him closer. He kissed her thoroughly, lazily, as if he had a lifetime of kisses to look forward to. She liked that. A lot. He slid one arm around her back and the other beneath her knees, sweeping her up in a fluid, graceful movement. Though she’d never tell him, she practically swooned. He carried her from the living room and into the bedroom, gently setting her down on the bed. He withdrew only long enough to remove the deadly gauntlets from his wrists, followed by his boots, cloak, jerkin, and shirt
beneath. She took in his golden skin and muscled chest, the slender scars that peppered his torso, her heart beating so fast she could hardly breathe. He was hers. This magnificent, powerful creature was hers. Sam’s mouth found hers again, and he eased her farther onto the bed. Down, down, his clever hands exploring every inch of her until she was on her back and he braced himself on his forearms to hover over her. He kissed her neck, and she arched up into him as he ran his hand down the plane of her torso, unbuttoning her tunic as he went. She didn’t want to know where he had learned to do these things. Because if she ever learned the names of those girls … Her breath hitched as he reached the last button and pulled her out of the jacket. He looked down at her body, his breathing ragged. They had gone further than this before, but there was a question in his eyes—a question written over every inch of his body. “Not tonight,” she whispered, her cheeks flaring with heat. “Not yet.” “I’m in no rush,” he said, bending down to graze his nose along her shoulder. “It’s just …” Gods above, she should stop talking. She didn’t owe him an explanation, and he didn’t push it with her, but … “If I’m only going to do this once, then I want to enjoy every step.” He understood what she meant by this—this relationship between them, this bond that was forming, so unbreakable and unyielding that it made the entire axis of her world shift toward him. That terrified her more than anything. “I can wait,” he said thickly, kissing her collarbone. “We have all the time in the world.” Maybe he was right. And spending all the time in the world with Sam … That was a treasure worth paying anything for.
CHAPTER 3 Dawn crept into their room, filling it with golden light that caught in Sam’s hair and made it shine like bronze. Propped on one elbow, Celaena watched him sleep. His bare torso was still gloriously tanned from the summer—suggesting days spent training in one of the courtyards of the Keep, or maybe lounging on the banks of the Avery. Scars of varying lengths were scattered across his back and shoulders—some of them slender and even, some of them thicker and jagged. A life spent training and battling … His body was a map of his adventures, or proof of what growing up with Arobynn Hamel was like. She ran a finger down the groove of his spine. She didn’t want to see another scar added to his flesh. She didn’t want this life for him. He was better than that. Deserved better. When they moved, maybe they couldn’t leave behind death and killing and all that came with it—not at first, but someday, far in the future, perhaps … She brushed the hair from his eyes. Someday, they would both lay down their swords and daggers and arrows. And by leaving Rifthold, by leaving the Guild, they’d take the first step toward that day, even if they had to keep working as assassins for a few more years at least. Sam’s eyes opened, and, finding her watching him, he gave her a sleepy smile. It hit her like a punch to the gut. Yes—for him, she could someday give up being Adarlan’s Assassin, give up the notoriety and fortune. He pulled her down, wrapping an arm around her bare waist and tucking her in close to him. His nose grazed her neck, and he breathed her in deeply. “Let’s take down Jayne and Farran,” she said softly.
Sam purred a response onto her skin that told her he was only halfawake —and that his mind was on anything but Jayne and Farran. She dug her nails into his back, and he grunted his annoyance, but made no move to awaken. “We’ll eliminate Farran first—to weaken the chain of command. It’d be too risky to take them both out at once—too many things could go wrong. But if we take out Farran first, even if it means Jayne’s guards will be on alert, they’ll still be in total chaos. And that’s when we’ll dispatch Jayne.” It was a solid plan. She liked this plan. They merely needed a few days to figure out Farran’s defenses and how to get around them. Sam mumbled another response that sounded like anything you want, just go back to sleep. Celaena looked up at the ceiling and smiled. After breakfast, and after she’d gone to the bank to transfer a huge sum of money to Arobynn’s account (an event that left both Celaena and Sam rather miserable and on edge), they spent the day gathering information on Ioan Jayne. As the biggest Crime Lord in Rifthold, Jayne was wellprotected, and his minions were everywhere: orphan spies in the streets, harlots working in the Vaults, barkeeps and merchants and even some city guards. Everyone knew where his house was: a sprawling three-s tory building of white stone on one of the nicest streets in Rifthold. The place was so wellwatched that it was too risky to do more than walk past. Even stopping to observe for a few minutes might spark the interest of one of the disguised henchmen loitering on the street. It seemed absurd that Jayne would have his house on this street. His neighbors were well-off merchants and minor nobility. Did they know who lived next door and what sort of evil went on beneath the emerald-tiled roof? They had a stroke of good luck as they meandered past the house, looking for all the world like a well-dressed, handsome couple on a morning walk through the capital. Just as they were passing by, Farran,
Jayne’s Second, swaggered out the door, heading for the black carriage parked out front. Celaena felt Sam’s arm tense under her hand. He kept looking ahead, not daring to stare at Farran for too long in case someone noticed. But Celaena, pretending that she’d discovered a pull in her forest-green tunic, was able to glance over a few times. She’d heard about Farran. Most everyone had. If she had a rival for notoriety, it was him. Tall, broad-shouldered, and in his late twenties, Farran had been born and abandoned in the streets of Rifthold. He’d begun working for Jayne as one of his orphan spies, and over the years had clawed his way up the ranks of Jayne’s twisted court, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake until he was appointed Second. Looking at him now, with his fine gray clothes and his gleaming black hair slicked into submission, it was impossible to tell that he’d once been one of the vicious little beasts that roamed the slums in feral packs. As he walked down the stairs to the carriage that awaited him in the private drive, Farran’s steps were smooth, calculated—his body rippling with barely restrained power. Even from across the street, Celaena could see how his dark eyes shone, his pale face set in a smile that made a shiver go down her spine. The bodies Farran had left in his wake, she knew, hadn’t been left in one piece. Somewhere in the years he’d spent rising from orphan to Second, Farran had developed a taste for sadistic torture. It had earned him his spot at Jayne’s side—and kept his rivals from challenging him. Farran slung himself into the carriage. The movement was so easy that his well-tailored clothes barely shifted out of place. The carriage started down the driveway, turned onto the street, and Celaena looked up as it ambled past. Only to see Farran looking out the window—staring right at her. Sam pretended not to notice. Celaena kept her face utterly blank—the disinterest of a well-bred lady who had no idea that the person staring at her like a cat watching a mouse was actually one of the most twisted men in the empire. Farran gave her a smile. There was nothing human in it.
And that was why their client had offered a kingdom’s ransom for Farran’s and Jayne’s deaths. She bobbed her head in a demure deflection of his attention, and Farran’s grin only grew before the carriage continued past and was swallowed up in the flow of city traffic. Sam loosed a breath. “I’m glad we’re taking him out first.” A dark, wicked part of her wished the opposite … wished she could see that feline grin vanish when Farran found out that Celaena Sardothien had killed Jayne. But Sam was right. She wouldn’t sleep one wink if they took out Jayne first, knowing Farran would expend all his resources hunting them down. They made a long, slow circle around the streets surrounding Jayne’s house. “It’d be easier to catch Farran on his way somewhere,” Celaena said, all too aware of how many eyes were tracking them on these streets. “The house is too well-guarded.” “I’ll probably need two days to figure it out,” Sam said. “You’ll need?” “I figured you’d want the glory of taking out Jayne. So I’ll dispatch Farran.” “Why not work together?” His smile faded. “Because I want you to stay out of this for as long as possible.” “Just because we’re together doesn’t mean I’ve become some weakling ninny.” “I’m not saying that. But can you blame me for wanting to keep the girl I love away from someone like Farran? And before you begin to rattle off your accomplishments, let me tell you that I do know how many people you’ve killed and the scrapes you’ve gotten out of. But I found this client, so we’re doing it my way.” If there hadn’t still been eyes on every corner, Celaena might have hit him. “How dare you—” “Farran is a monster,” Sam said, not looking at her. “You said so yourself. And if anything goes wrong, the last place I want you to be is in his hands.” “We’d be safer if we worked together.”
A muscle feathered in his jaw. “I don’t need you looking out for me, Celaena.” “Is this because of the money? Because I’m paying for things?” “It’s because I’m responsible for this hire, and because you don’t always get to make the rules.” “At least let me do some aerial spotting for you,” she said. She could let Sam take on Farran—she could become secondary for this mission. Hadn’t she just accepted that she could someday let go of being Adarlan’s Assassin? He could have the spotlight. “No aerial spotting,” Sam said sharply. “You’ll be on the other side of the city—far away from this.” “You know how ridiculous that is, don’t you?” “I’ve had just as much training as you, Celaena.” She might have pushed it—might have kept arguing until he gave in— but she caught the flicker of bitterness in his eyes. She hadn’t seen that bitterness in months, not since Skull’s Bay, when they’d been all but enemies. Sam had always been forced to watch while glory was heaped upon her, and always taken whatever missions she didn’t deign to accept. Which was absurd, really, given how talented he was. If death-dealing could be called a talent. And while she loved strutting around, calling herself Adarlan’s Assassin, with Sam that sort of arrogance now sometimes felt like cruelty. So though it killed a part of her to say it, and though it went against all her training to agree, Celaena nudged him with a shoulder and said, “Fine. You take down Farran by yourself. But I get to dispatch Jayne—and then we’ll do it my way.” Celaena had her weekly dancing lesson with Madame Florine, who also trained all of the dancers at the Royal Theater, so she left Sam to finish his scouting as she headed to the old woman’s private studio. Four hours later, sweaty and aching and utterly spent, Celaena made her way back home across the city. She’d known the stern Madame Florine since she was a child: she taught all of Arobynn’s assassins the latest popular dances. But Celaena liked to take extra lessons because of the
flexibility and grace the classical dances instilled. She’d always suspected the terse instructor had barely tolerated her—but to her surprise, Madame Florine had refused to take any pay for lessons now that she’d left Arobynn. She’d have to find another dance instructor once they moved. More than that, a studio with a decent pianoforte player. And the city would have to have a library, too. A great, wonderful library. Or a bookshop with a knowledgeable owner who could make sure her thirst for books was always sated. And a good clothier. And perfumer. And jeweler. And confectionary. Her feet dragged as she walked up the wooden steps to her apartment above the warehouse. She blamed it on the lesson. Madame Florine was a brutal taskmistress—she didn’t accept limp wrists or sloppy posture or anything except Celaena’s very best. Though she did always turn a blind eye to the last twenty minutes of their lesson, when she allowed Celaena to tell the student on the pianoforte to play her favorite music and set herself loose, dancing with wild abandon. And now that Celaena had no pianoforte of her own in the apartment, Madame Florine even let her remain after the lesson to practice. Celaena found herself atop the stair landing, staring at the silvery-green door. She could leave Rifthold. If it meant being free from Arobynn, she could leave behind all these things she loved. Other cities on the continent had libraries and bookshops and fine outfitters. Perhaps not as wonderful as Rifthold’s, and perhaps the city’s heart wouldn’t beat with the familiar rhythm that she adored, but … for Sam, she could leave. Sighing, Celaena unlocked the door and walked into the apartment. Arobynn Hamel was sitting on the couch. “Hello, darling,” he said, and smiled.
CHAPTER 4 Alone in the kitchen, Celaena poured herself a cup of tea, trying to keep her hands from shaking. He’d probably gotten the address from the servants who had helped bring over her things. To find him here, having broken into her home … How long had he been sitting inside? Had he gone through her things? She poured another cup of tea for Arobynn. Cups and saucers in hand, she walked back into the living room. He had his legs crossed, one arm sprawled across the back of the sofa, and seemed to have made himself quite at home. She said nothing as she gave him the cup and then took a seat in one of the armchairs. The hearth was dark, and the day had been warm enough that Sam had left one of the living room windows open. A briny breeze off the Avery flowed into the apartment, rustling the crimson velvet curtains and teasing through her hair. She’d miss that smell, too. Arobynn took a sip, then peered into his teacup to look at the amber liquid inside. “Who can I thank for the impeccable taste in tea?” “Me. But you already know that.” “Hmm.” Arobynn took another sip. “You know, I did know that.” The afternoon light caught in his gray eyes, turning them to quicksilver. “What I don’t know is why you and Sam think it’s a good idea to dispatch Ioan Jayne and Rourke Farran.” Of course he knew. “It’s none of your business. Our client wanted to operate outside of the Guild, and now that I’ve transferred it the money to your account, Sam and I are no longer a part of it.” “Ioan Jayne,” Arobynn repeated, as if she somehow didn’t know who he was. “Ioan Jayne. Are you insane?” She clenched her jaw. “I don’t see why I should trust your advice.”
“Even I wouldn’t take on Jayne.” Arobynn’s gaze burned. “And I’m saying that as someone who has spent years thinking of ways to put that man in a grave.” “I’m not playing another one of your mind games.” She set down her tea and rose from her seat. “Get out of my house.” Arobynn just stared up at her as if she were a sullen child. “Jayne is the undisputed Crime Lord in Rifthold for a reason. And Farran is his Second for a damn good reason, too. You might be excellent, Celaena, but you’re not invincible.” She crossed her arms. “Maybe you’re trying to dissuade me because you’re worried that when I kill him, I will have truly surpassed you.” Arobynn shot to his feet, towering over her. “The reason I’m trying to dissuade you, you stupid, ungrateful girl, is because Jayne and Farran are lethal. If a client offered me the glass castle itself, I wouldn’t touch an offer like that!” She felt her nostrils flare. “After all that you’ve done, how can you expect me to believe a word that comes out of your mouth?” Her hand had started drifting toward the dagger at her waist. Arobynn’s eyes remained on her face, but he was aware—he knew every movement her hands made and didn’t have to look at her to track them. “Get out of my house,” she growled. Arobynn gave her a half smile and looked around the apartment with deliberate care. “Tell me something, Celaena: do you trust Sam?” “What sort of a question is that?” Arobynn casually slid his hands into the pockets of his silver tunic. “Have you told him the truth about where you came from? I have a feeling that’s something he’d like to know. Perhaps before he dedicates his life to you.” She focused on keeping her breathing even, and pointed at the door again. “Go.” Arobynn shrugged, waving a hand as if to dismiss the questions he’d raised, and walked toward the front door. She watched his every move, took in every step and shift of his shoulders, noted what he looked at. He reached for the brass doorknob, but turned to her. His eyes—those silver eyes that would probably haunt her for the rest of her life—were bright. “No matter what I have done, I really do love you, Celaena.”
The word hit her like a stone to the head. He’d never said that word to her before. Ever. A long silence fell between them. Arobynn’s neck shifted as he swallowed. “I do the things that I do because I’m afraid … and because I don’t know how to express what I feel.” He said it so quietly that she barely heard it. “I did all of those things because I was angry with you for picking Sam.” Was it the King of the Assassins who spoke, or the father, or the lover who had never manifested himself? Arobynn’s carefully cultivated mask fell, and the wound she’d given him flickered in those magnificent eyes. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “Stay in Rifthold.” She swallowed, and found it particularly hard to do so. “I’m going.” “No,” he said softly. “Don’t go.” No. That was what she’d said to him that night he’d beaten her, in the moment before he’d struck her, when she thought he was going to hurt Sam instead. And then he’d beaten her so badly she’d been knocked unconscious. Then he’d beaten Sam, too. Don’t. That was what Ansel had said to her in the desert, when Celaena had pressed the sword into the back of her neck, when the agony of Ansel’s betrayal had been almost enough to make Celaena kill the girl she’d called a friend. But that betrayal still paled in comparison to what Arobynn had done to her when he’d tricked her into killing Doneval, a man who could have freed countless slaves. He was using words as chains to bind her again. He’d had so many chances over the years to tell her that he loved her—he’d known how much she’d craved those words. But he hadn’t spoken them until he needed to use them as weapons. And now that she had Sam, Sam who said those words without expecting anything in return, Sam who loved her for reasons she would never understand … Celaena tilted her head to the side, the only warning she gave that she was still ready to attack him. “Get out of my house.” Arobynn just nodded slowly and left.